


Not What it Looks Like

by Ellis_Hendricks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Coffee-related misunderstandings, Conflicted Sherlock, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Sherlock's many dressing gowns, Spontaneous Decisions, Swedenlolly, eventually Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16567088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: While Sherlock is attempting to recover his health after the Culverton Smith case, Molly is a regular visitor to 221B. He's trying to work out how he feels about this when he receives some decidedly unwanted guests...





	1. Not What it Looks Like

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I wrote *another* fic involving Molly babysitting Sherlock after TLD - although I can't bring myself to apologise for that :-)
> 
> The first chapter was an 'incident' I mentioned in passing in an earlier fic ('In Loco Parentis'), but couldn't shake the idea that it needed its own little story. 
> 
> Thanks again to geekmama for patiently beta-reading both this and the second chapter - it's undoubtedly a better piece of work for her input, corrections and suggestions. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he immediately knew that something was…different. Changed, but at the same time familiar, because, of course, he’d been through this before and was all too accustomed to the various, delightful stages of recovery. One sign that things were different was that he had woken up on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow; this was his preferred sleeping posture when he was just being ‘Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and general arsehole’, but when ‘Sherlock Holmes, general arsehole and addict-in-the-throes-of-withdrawal’ tried it, it made him feel as though he was about to throw up his guts. A foetal position, preferably with a white-knuckle death-grip on the shins, was the only way to conquer it – and even then, the idea of sleep was fairly laughable.

That was another sign that this morning was different. Sleep had been so erratic and wretched during the past few weeks that he had invariably been getting up before dawn, swapping restlessness in his bedroom for restlessness in his living room, which somehow seemed more bearable. But now, Sherlock’s room and his bed were bathed in bright, spring daylight. Ordinarily, this unsolicited intrusion of nature would prompt of succession of curse words, but now it felt almost miraculous. There was a pleasant heaviness in his limbs instead of a marrow-deep ache.

He threw out a sleep-heavy arm and dragged the alarm clock close enough to be able to confirm that the first digit really  _was_  an eight. As he processed this unlikely turn of events, a sudden thought urgently jabbed at Sherlock through the haze of sleep – was he alone?

And immediately after this thought, a disconcerting surge of mild panic that he might be.

What day was it? Somewhere in the recesses of his brain was the shift timetable for the Pathology lab at Bart’s, but despite the fact that it was data he accessed regularly, it stubbornly refused to present itself.

Sherlock sat up, trying to block out the noise of the central London traffic – and Hudders’ damnedable vacuum cleaner - while he listened intently for signs of life in the other rooms of 221B.

All was quiet.

He hastily disentangled himself from the sheets and scrambled – with limited dexterity, but with far greater energy than of late – out of bed and towards the closed bedroom door. It was only as his fingers curled around the handle that another region of his brain woke up, causing him to pause, check himself, evaluate.  _You like being alone_ , he reminded himself,  _It is your preferred state of being_. When this talking-to failed to quell the gnawing in his stomach, he tried another kind of reasoning: if she had gone, then barrelling into the living room looking like a mad scarecrow wasn’t going to achieve anything, and if she  _hadn’t_ , then another sixty seconds wasn’t going to make a great deal of difference.

Sherlock sighed. Why the hell did it even matter?

He knew why it mattered. Because the nights that had been most bearable were the ones that ended with the soft sound of Molly’s feet descending the stairs from John’s old room, and her gentle, cautious knock at the living room door, as she sought him out, sought reassurance that he hadn’t done anything astoundingly stupid in the dark, hopeless hours.

Summoning a modicum of dignity, Sherlock slid into his dressing gown, made a quick effort to tame his wild halo of bed-hair, and gave himself one final, firm pep-talk before he finally left his bedroom.

Before he’d reached the kitchen, he had his answer; the air was filled with the scent of coffee and butter. Sherlock’s stomach, previously so clenched, unexpectedly started to growl. It was another sign. For the past few days, all he had been able to contemplate was very weak, sugary tea – so weak that Mycroft would consider it unpatriotic - and a few joyless bites of dry toast.

There was a split second before Molly noticed him in the doorway, long enough for him to take in the sight. She was sitting at the kitchen table, one hand around a mug of coffee in a space she’d cleared on the table-top. Beside her was a plate bearing a half-eaten piece of toast, and she chewed slowly as she read from the medical journal she held in her other hand. She looked…different. Relaxed? Unselfconscious, maybe. Standing there in the doorway, he suddenly felt…strange.

Light-headedness could surely be down to possible hypoglycaemia or being slightly anaemic as a result of his irregular eating - but Sherlock had a horrible feeling it might have something to do with the fact that Molly Hooper was wearing his dressing gown. The blue satin stripe, his second-favourite.

And from that acknowledgement, apparently there was only one way things were going to go. His treacherous gaze took in her bare legs before he’d even had time to realise what he was doing.

“Oh…hi,” she said, offering him a surprised smile. “Sorry, I…I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Good morning, Molly,” Sherlock said, hoping that adopting a formal tone might distract from his flushing skin. Thankfully, Molly didn’t seem to have noticed – although she had noticed  _something,_ and the smile had been replaced by a slight frown of uncertainty.

 _You’re staring, you tactless twit!_  he heard John’s voice admonish him.

“Sorry, I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed this,” she said, glancing down at the dressing gown. “It felt colder than usual this morning.”

She seemed to think that he might be annoyed, which saddened him for a moment. Was he really that petty and ungenerous?

He’d been a lot of things over the past couple of weeks, though, most of them fairly unpleasant to be around.

“Of course not,” he managed to reply. “I did say that you could borrow it. And besides, I have six.”

Molly’s expression changed again; incredulity followed by amusement.

“Six?” she repeated. “Six dressing gowns?”

“Two red, two blue, one Tartan and one camel,” he heard himself gabble. “I mean not  _actual_  camel, obviously, but wool and cashmere in the approximate shade of a camel.”

He needed to shut up. But apparently that wasn’t going to happen.

“I used to have eight, but one was lost to a kitchen experiment, and my dry-cleaner was unable to adequately remove the bloodstains out of the other one,” he said, watching Molly’s eyebrows slowly rise. “Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat. “My point is that dressing gowns are something I am not short of, so…”

He couldn’t help but contrast this situation with the occasion a few years ago, when The Woman had sat just a few feet away from where Molly was now, also wearing his dressing gown. A lot of things had changed since then, in so many ways. But whereas he could never completely relax his guard while Adler was on his territory, with Molly it felt…easy, welcome even. The flat seemed somehow warmer, more lived-in.

“Oh. Well…thanks,” Molly replied. “I would have had a shower and got dressed properly, but I didn’t want to wake you. Did…did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very well, apparently,” Sherlock replied. “…you?”

She nodded.

“And I’m sorry…you know, about dozing off like that last night,” Molly said, with an awkward smile. “I mean, especially when I’m supposed to be here looking after you.”

Sherlock smiled.

“I can assure you that I did not use that interval to escape from the flat and hunt down the nearest all-night sweetie-shop,” he told her, using John’s preferred euphemism.

In truth, Sherlock hadn’t known what to do when he realised Molly had fallen asleep on his sofa. He knew he should probably just throw a blanket over her and take himself to bed as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Instead, he had passed the time in his chair, quietly cleaning his violin, looking through an old collection of microscope slides, and reading online the latest paper Molly had had published in  _The Journal of Forensic Pathology_. He wondered why she never told him about these things ( _Why don’t_ you _ever tell her you read them?_  John’s voice needled). Occasionally, he would realise, with discomfort, that he had been looking at her for slightly too long. Sherlock Holmes: detective, chemist, misanthrope, addict – and apparently now inappropriate-watcher-of-sleeping-women, too.

“Good,” Molly said, smiling behind her coffee mug. “Because then I’d have to tell Mrs Hudson, and she’d probably nail the windows shut.”

Sherlock shuffled further into the kitchen, casting his eyes around vaguely, hoping that something would answer the call of his growling stomach.

“Is there any bread left?” he queried.

Molly set down her mug, evidently surprised and pleased by this latest development.

“Yes, but if you’re hungry, I can make you some scrambled eggs,” she said, starting to get to her feet. “Or a banana and oat smoothie – if you’ve got cinnamon and vanilla essence.”

“I don’t even have any bananas,” Sherlock replied. “Is that likely to be a problem?”

Molly smiled.

“Okay, um, well, toast then?”

“Tea and toast will be fine,” Sherlock told her. “But I can get it myself – thank you, Molly.”

He examined the bread briefly before dropping a slice into the toaster.

“Are you sure you don’t want a coffee?” Molly enquired. As he turned to face her, she wrinkled her nose at him, adding, “I’ve, um, I’ve been practising my barista skills.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, feeling his lips form a pursed smile.

“Is this in case Pathology doesn’t pan out?” he asked.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, as though she was deciding whether or not he was joking.

_Not joking, mate – flirting._

“I’m really  _not_ ,” Sherlock replied insistently to the disembodied voice of John.

“Sorry?”

Christ - he’d said that out loud.

“Coffee actually sounds good,” Sherlock said hurriedly. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

He moved aside to allow Molly to get to the kitchen counter, watching her push up the sleeves of his dressing gown as she went to the sink to rinse out the jug she’d previously used. When her hand was on the fridge door, she stopped, turned.

“Oh…you usually have it black, don’t you?”

If he really  _was_  flirting, Sherlock reasoned, this would be the point where he’d make a terrible John-standard joke about being strong and sweet – but aside from the fact that he would  _never_  be that moronic, he certainly didn’t feel particularly strong at the moment, and the sweetness thing was debatable at the best of times. At the moment, however, he had a deep sense of not wishing to discourage Molly in something that apparently brought her enjoyment. He told her to go ahead.

“It’s usually only because there’s no milk,” he added.

Sherlock took a seat at the kitchen table and switched on his phone, eager to give his eyes and mind something else on which to focus. The texts that eventually appeared included the daily reminder from John to get off his phone because he wasn’t supposed to be working. Molly was humming quietly, probably subconsciously, while she warmed the milk and waited for the coffee to brew. Sherlock’s eyes flicked between his phone screen and his house guest; although Molly had stayed over at Baker Street several times over the past fortnight, this was, he realised, the first time they had had breakfast together. Previously, either he had been feeling too hideous, or Molly had been rushing off to work. His fingertips drummed lightly on the table top, while his brain grappled with what felt like a major social conundrum – namely, how did one go about asking someone when they’re planning to leave when you’re not actually sure you want them to go? When it’s a genuine query, rather than borne out of irritation at their ongoing presence?

Before he had resolved this satisfactorily, Molly was setting down a mug of coffee, complete with a milk foam design on the top. Sherlock studied it for a second.

“Is it a…?”

“It’s a leaf,” she replied quickly.

The fact that she appeared to be blushing confirmed Sherlock’s initial reaction to what he saw in front of him – they had both realised that the milk foam leaf looked more like a heart.

“I’ve been watching YouTube videos, but I need more practice,” Molly added, cheeks still flushed. “I did a cat for Rosie the other day, and it came out pretty well.”

A slight smile nudged its way onto Sherlock’s lips.

“Little early to be starting her on a caffeine habit, isn’t it?”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“I meant to look at,” she told him. “Although she got pretty upset when I started to stir it and destroyed the cat.”

“I’ll try to rein in my distress,” Sherlock assured her, although he did feel a strange pang of something when he plunged the teaspoon into what really was very definitely more of a heart than a leaf.

A few minutes later, Sherlock had retrieved and buttered his toast, and he and Molly were sitting perpendicular to each other at the kitchen table. He’d watched her perform a momentary dance of indecision, presumably trying to decide where best to sit; they were used to being side-by-side while working in the lab, but Sherlock conceded that in the context of a meal, this might seem a little strange. For a while, there was a settled, companionable silence between them – but it didn’t last long.

Footsteps coming up the stairs. Molly looked up from her journal, clearly hearing the same thing. He started to get to his feet as the living room door opened.

“Woo-oo, Sherlock, you’ve got visitors!” Mrs Hudson trilled.

Sherlock saw Molly shoot him a questioning look.

“Mrs Hudson, I’m not receiving clients, remember?”

“Yes, dear, I know, I’m not senile,” his landlady replied, giving Molly a little wave. “I said  _visitors_ , not clients.”

And with that, he was plunged into a nightmare that he felt Edgar Allen Poe might have struggled to envisage. For there, coming through his doorway as Mrs Hudson stood aside were his mother and father. If he’d ever wished that something was a drug-induced hallucination, this would be high up on the list.

“What-what are you doing here?” he gasped. “I thought you’d gone back home?”

“I’ll leave you all to catch up properly,” Mrs Hudson said in a stage-whisper, winking at him as she backed out of the door.  _That’s it Hudders, just light the touch-paper and retreat._

“Yes, we’d planned to,” his mother replied, smiling, as they advanced well and truly into the living room. “But then we managed to get some returned tickets for  _Oklahoma!_  last night.”

“Yes, I’m sure buyers’ remorse is a very common occurrence,” Sherlock replied. He was all too aware of the fourth person in the room, and the inevitable moment when they would all be forced to address it.

“Anyway,” his mother said, unperturbed by – or more likely just ignoring – his comment. “We were on our way to the station this morning and we thought we’d drop by.”

“I’m struggling to think of any scenario where Baker Street would be  _on the way_  to Victoria,” he said. “Aside from one involving a very unscrupulous cabbie.”

If his parents wanted to carry out a spot-check to make sure he wasn’t passed out in the flat with a needle in his arm, they could have at least devised a better excuse.

“Honestly, darling, we-” – his mother stopped mid-utterance – “Oh! Hello!”

Molly, presumably uncomfortable with lurking furtively in his kitchen, was now hovering on the threshold to the living room. She greeted his parents, her eyes darting to his as though worrying she was doing the wrong thing.

“We had no idea you had a guest staying, Sherlock!” his mother said. “We would have rung ahead.”

He was about to ask why that hadn’t occurred to them anyway, but when he looked at Molly, he thought better of it.

“Mummy, Dad – this is Dr Molly Hooper,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Molly, this is – as I’m sure you’ve inferred – my mother and father. Dr Hooper has been, ah, good enough to oversee my recovery.”

Judging by the look on his parents’ faces, his attempts to introduce Molly as having a primarily professional interest in his wellbeing were not working as hoped. Undermined, he suspected, by the fact that she was wearing his dressing gown.

"Well, that  _is_  very good of you," his mother said to Molly with a smile. 

"Sorry I'm not properly dressed," Molly replied, pulling the dressing gown cord a little tighter around her waist (or, more accurately, her hips).

"Don't apologise, Molly," Sherlock told her. "If you turned up at my parents' house at the crack of dawn, I am sure they would be similarly attired."

"Oh, it's hardly the crack of dawn, darling," his mother said with a dismissive wave. “But, you’re right, no need to apologise.” She turned to his father: "Remember those few years before Myc came along? All those lazy weekend mornings at home, not bothering to get dressed until after lunch."

His father nodded, obligingly.

Sherlock was itching to point out that it was hardly the same thing, but then he stopped. Looked at the damning evidence. Molly's shoes by the sofa, the striped jumper folded over the back of a chair, her book folded open on the coffee table next to the half-played game of Scrabble (which Molly had very definitely been winning). It all looked alarmingly domestic.

"I recognise your name, Molly," his father mused.

"Oh, aren't you Rosie's godmother?" his mother put in suddenly.

Molly nodded enthusiastically, seemingly pleased that a connection had been made. Sherlock, for his part, could only think that this information must have come from John, or possibly Mrs Hudson in one of her more interfering moments; he had never mentioned Molly to his parents, let alone their shared godparenting status. That had been a deliberate choice.

_Wow, Sherlock. Way to make a woman feel valued._

Trust John – even the John in his head – to view it so simplistically. It had nothing to do with Molly’s  _value_  - but for what purpose would he have discussed her with his parents? He went out of the way to avoid discussing  _most_  things with his parents, particularly anything of importance. And particularly anything that might ignite their tendency to hop on the nearest flight of fancy at the smallest provocation – in short, exactly what seemed to be happening in his living room right now.

But when he glanced across at Molly, it started to dawn on Sherlock that she might see things differently; that not mentioning her to his mother and father  _could_  be deemed a sign of her insignificance. Suddenly, his stomach felt like lead.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Molly was asking. Sherlock was becoming all too aware of how expertly she could cover any discomfit she might be feeling.

“We’re fine, thank you,” his mother replied, giving Sherlock at least  _some_  hope that this visit wouldn’t be a long one. If Mycroft had any pre-existing knowledge of this, the first thing he was going to do once he was back to full strength was to find something creative to do with that umbrella of his.

But then his parents started to make themselves at home on the sofa, his mother gesturing for Molly to sit, too. She glanced at him for a moment, pulling the dressing gown over her knees as she sat down.

Sherlock hovered at the periphery, suddenly feeling surplus to requirements.

“So what are you a doctor of, Molly?” his father asked. “Lost causes?”

He nodded towards Sherlock and gave a chuckle; Sherlock stared at him darkly.

“I work in Forensic Pathology,” Molly replied, smiling. “At St Bartholomew’s.”

“Ah!” his father replied. “That makes a lot of sense. I can see now why you two are friends.”

When Sherlock instinctively glanced at Molly, he saw a slightly odd look flicker across her face; it was only there for a second before her innate politeness kicked in again, but he felt the force of it like a knee to the guts. After all this time, and despite everything Molly had done for him, their friendship had never been openly acknowledged between them – and that was his fault.

“So, Molly, how is he doing?” his father added, leaning forward a little with his hands on his knees.

“I  _am_  actually in the room,” Sherlock put in, tersely.

“Yes, darling, we know,” his mother replied. “But you’re not really the best judge; when you were shot, you told us we didn’t need to bother coming up to London.”

“Yeeess,” Sherlock replied. “But not because it wasn’t serious.”

His mother rolled her eyes and tutted.

“Sherlock is…he’s doing really well, actually,” Molly said, her fingers toying with the dressing gown cord. “I’m...I’m really proud of him.”

She glanced up across at Sherlock fleetingly, just as her words were sinking in, and he felt momentarily off-balance. He had fallen so far and so spectacularly this time, taking those he cared about down with him, and yet somehow Molly could find it within her to not only forgive him, but to advocate for him, too.  Not for the first time, Sherlock felt completely floored by Molly Hooper’s patience and compassion – and the thought of ever losing that was unspeakable. 

_You know what this means, don’t you? You really can’t screw it up this time._

His parents were continuing to engage Molly in conversation, asking questions about her work, whereabouts in London she lived, how long she had known him. Sherlock's own presence now seemed entirely surplus to requirements, as far as his mother and father were concerned. He watched Molly, how she was with his parents, how, within mere minutes – and with no discernible effort – they seemed to have been completely won over by her. In fact, they hadn’t looked  _this_ happy when he returned after being dead for two years.  

Eventually, once Molly had established once again that his parents didn’t want any tea, she started to get up from her seat.

“I’ll go and get ready quickly, and then I can get out of your way,” she told his parents, smiling. “It’s been lovely to meet you both.”

Instinctively, Sherlock felt a strange spike of panic – and not, as he might have thought, because he was facing the prospect of more excruciating small-talk with his parents.

“Please don’t feel you have to leave on our account, dear,” his mother replied. (Funny how this term of endearment sounded very different than when his mother employed the word ‘darling’ on him, Sherlock noted.)

“Yes, Molly, it’s fine,” he said quickly. “My parents won’t be staying long. After all, they have a train to catch.”

He looked pointedly at the senior interlopers on his sofa.

“Open tickets, old boy,” his father smiled. “Valid any time over the next month.”

Oh, good God. At this point, given their delight at making Molly’s acquaintance - and ruining  _his_  Sunday - there seemed a very real chance that they  _might_  stay for a month. Right  _there_  was something that would spell the end of his sobriety.

“Still, you’ve got… _things_  to get back to,” Sherlock told them, waving his hand vaguely.  “ _Village-y_  things.”

Sherlock made a step towards the door, but stopped when he caught Molly’s eye. She was giving him a look. He interpreted it as a combination of ‘stop being a stroppy toddler’ and ‘they’re your parents – do this for them’, and it made him literally swallow the words that he was about to utter. He wondered whether it was enough that he was prepared to do it for Molly instead?

He distracted himself with his cooling coffee, catching the gentle smile that Molly gave him for his quiet compliance. She started to scoop up her jumper and other scattered possessions, Sherlock watching as his living room became more and more joyless and bereft by the second.

“Anyway, it was wonderful to meet you, Molly,” his mother said, getting to her feet so that she could grasp Molly’s spare hand in hers. “And the next time we’re able to persuade Sherlock to visit us, you must come too, as our guest.”

“And as a thank you,” his father added, with a wink.

Again, Sherlock was on the verge of retorting that this offer was hardly much of thank you, when he saw Molly's reaction – she seemed to be genuinely touched by his parents’ gesture. But at the same time, there was something in her polite smile that suggested that she didn’t think it very likely that the invitation would ever come to anything. There was that gut-punch again.

 "So, um, if you need anything, Sherlock," she said, poised at the threshold of the kitchen. "Just text. Okay?"

His parents, he knew, were doing that ridiculous 'don't mind us - just pretend we're not here' thing, and, if anything, it made him feel  _more_  stiff and self-conscious. He thanked Molly, heard himself assure her he would be fine, and watched rather helplessly as she disappeared through the kitchen and into the flat. In a few moments, he would hear the shower clanking and sputtering into life – were his parents not ten feet away acting as the perfect libido-suppresser, Sherlock would have been concerned about where his thoughts would wander. It wouldn’t have been the first time this week, he acknowledged, guiltily.

As it was, he turned his attention back to his uninvited guests, and he couldn’t help but notice that his mother and father were wearing strange, irritatingly cheerful expressions – in fact, he half expected one or both of them to break into song, like characters from their beloved stage musicals. Perhaps Mrs Hudson and the boys from Speedy’s would even join them in a chorus line.

But he thought, too, about the look on Molly’s face as she made conversation with his parents - and about the feelings it flared in him, which he didn’t seem able to tamp down. Much as any family gathering pained him, Sherlock now accepted that he would have to find some way of asking Molly to accompany him to his parents’ house - whatever the blasted occasion turned out to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Exactly What it Looks Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months have passed, and Sherlock finally fulfils his parents' wishes - in a roundabout way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and such lovely comments on the first chapter. This concluding part might not go where you think it's going to go, but hopefully you'll enjoy!
> 
> And, as always, thank you to geekmama for the beta read (which included spotting a massive continuity error!)

The flight had been an early one, and from Gatwick it was just half an hour’s drive to their destination – but for once, the cab was not heading north, back to central London, but south to the wilds of West Sussex. And for once (and now, possibly, for always), Sherlock was not alone for this familiar journey. He was quite happy to endure the uncomfortable middle seatbelt if it meant he could entwine his hand with Molly's, keep her quite literally at his side. He was still marvelling at how quickly these seemingly seismic changes had become instinct, essential now to his state of being.

"Oh God, I'm not sure I can do this," Molly said, with the resignation of someone who knows that, actually, they don't have a lot of choice. 

"I told you, Molly, it will be fine," Sherlock replied, hoping that he sounded reassuring. He was acutely aware of how important it now was to him that she was comfortable and contented at all times, however unrealistic that was likely to be.

"Not  _this_ ," Molly said, rolling her eyes at him fondly, and gesturing around to the car and what lay beyond. " _This_ ," she added, holding up her phone in her spare hand. "Turning it on again. I mean, I know it had to happen at some point..."

"Not if we'd gone with my original idea," Sherlock told her. 

Molly’s lips quirked into a smile.

"I'm sure you'd be an amazing reindeer herdsman, Sherlock," she said, arching an eyebrow at him. "But from what I hear, it's pretty tricky to get decent wi-fi up in Lapland."

He smiled.

"I hadn't really worked out the  _particulars_  of the plan," he told her. "It was more the general situation that appealed."

That 'general situation' being sequestered somewhere remote and secluded, so the two of them could continue what they had so recently begun and, what Sherlock knew now was the only way he wanted to live. He supposed that other men in this, his newly-minted position, probably felt this way – although when he looked across at Molly now, it was with the renewed assertion that they couldn’t  _possibly_  feel it with the same fervency that he did. 

“I know,” Molly smiled, gently squeezing his hand. “But it would only be putting off the inevitable."

She looked down at her phone again, thumb poised over the power button. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment before she took the plunge.

"Maybe we should have said something beforehand," she said. "I mean, maybe it wasn't fair..."

Sherlock chuckled, turning far enough to lightly press his lips to Molly's temple.

"It wasn't exactly planned," he reminded her. "And besides, saying something would have unleashed all hell, which I think might have detracted from the occasion. A few texts and missed calls are nothing in comparison."

"A few?!" Molly said, eyes widening. 

She held up her phone for his perusal. They both watched as the screen came alive with a rapid-fire succession of alerts, each one accompanied by an urgent ping or buzz, until finally, the phone gave up and produced a message that said, ‘Show 27 more notifications?’. Noting the distress on Molly’s face, Sherlock made a decision; he reached out and plucked the phone from her hand, swiftly tucking it into the inside pocket of his Belstaff.

“Sherlock!”

“Hm?”

“I can’t just-”

“It’s perfectly safe,” he said, patting his pocket. “In fact, mine’s in there too; they can compare notes.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you doing this so that I’ll be forced to go fumbling around in your pockets for it?”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side.

“Well, yes, that would be one very valid reason, but my motive is actually a lot simpler,” he said. “There are approximately fifteen minutes of this journey remaining, and if I've learnt anything over the past few days, Molly - and I think it's safe to say that I have - I can now think of much more gratifying ways to spend that time than fretting about an electronic device."

Hand still holding hers, Sherlock turned far enough to enable him to comfortably dip his head and capture Molly's lips with his. He heard a short hum of surprise escape her before she started to return the kiss, which caused Sherlock to smile against her mouth - but only briefly, before he gave his full focus to this staggering, still-new sensation, and the rush of endorphins that accompanied it. He felt Molly's fingers wrap around the lapel of his coat, tugging him closer; Sherlock took this as encouragement and, somehow, in the confines of the car, he managed to slip his hand under Molly’s coat and around her waist, revelling in the warmth and newly-charted familiarity of her body. His own body was certainly reacting in kind, and Sherlock was starting to wonder how much he would have to pay the cab driver to park up somewhere quiet and then make himself scarce for twenty minutes. But then, a lay-by on the A24 wasn't  _quite_  what he'd pictured for their first shag on English soil.

When Molly gently pulled away again, she was grinning at him, looking decidedly pleased with herself. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the cabbie in the rear-view mirror, who eyed him with suppressed amusement. Sherlock could only assume that he looked as dazed as he felt (although the cabbie was still losing a good fifty per cent of his tip for that).

"So," Sherlock said, swallowing, his voice thick. "Was that...sufficiently distracting?"

"Mm-hm," Molly nodded, still holding on to his lapel. The fingers of her other hand raked gently through the hair at his temple, firing a shiver of pleasure to all of Sherlock’s extremities. "And when this is all done and I'm not feeling so guilty, you definitely have permission to distract me some more." 

"You can count on it," Sherlock replied, noting that the pace of his heart hadn't yet settled. "Although you have nothing to feel guilty about, Molly. Neither of us do. And I'm fairly sure that any shock that  _does_  arise will be very quickly tempered by relief and happiness that I have finally got my head out of my arse after eight years."

Molly giggled, nuzzling her nose against his before catching his lips with hers for another quick but searing kiss. It was such a relief to Sherlock that she had the faith and confidence to be this way with him, that his previous behaviour hadn't permanently imprinted a fear of rejection. And he would devote himself to ensuring that those feelings could never return. 

In the immediate wake of Sherrinford, they had fumbled their way rather awkwardly to a place of understanding – or rather, he had done the awkward fumbling and Molly had responded with incredible understanding. Throughout the whole of that first, heart-clenching conversation in the living room of her flat, Sherlock had had to physically clamp his arms by his sides to prevent himself from reaching out and showing Molly just how much he had meant those words; from taking what he couldn’t be sure was really his to take. It turned out that convincing her of the sincerity of those words wasn’t an issue, but when he realised that, Sherlock then had no idea where to go from there – he simply hadn’t thought that far ahead. But instead, Molly said she could see that he wasn’t ready for anything to happen between them - and she wasn’t going to force it because it would only end up hurting them both. Their friendship, she said, meant too much.

As always, Molly seemed to be able to read him completely; he  _wasn’t_  ready - but if she had wanted it right away, he would have tried, because at that point Sherlock wanted to give her anything and everything she desired. In the end, he had left Molly’s flat that night riven by competing emotions: immeasurable relief that she wasn’t lost to him after all, gratitude for the space that he so clearly needed – but also the unshakable feeling that he was walking in the wrong direction.

At first, it was tolerable. His days were spent going back and forth between London and the newly-fortified Sherrinford, spending more time with his parents than he had done in the whole decade previously, and trying to unravel the full extent of Uncle Rudy’s machinations – and throughout all this, Molly had been a reassuring presence, a touchstone. But as the weeks went by - and the fallout from Sherrinford took up less and less of his time - Sherlock found that his feelings for Molly would surge in like waves, threaten to knock him off his feet. And he realised that he had absolutely no idea what to do, how to start.

Perhaps that was why the moderately diverting case that came to him via the Swedish Embassy (realistically, no more than a six) suddenly held such appeal. But before he could go, he had a social engagement to fulfil – that of his goddaughter’s first birthday party. Sherlock hadn’t planned to mention his travel plans to anyone, but as the celebrations wound down, he suddenly found himself asking Molly if he could speak with her privately. In the tiny entrance hall to John’s flat, his heart threatening to beat its way out his chest, he explained that he was going away and that he wasn’t sure when he would return. Molly had nodded, asked him to be careful and - perhaps emboldened by Prosecco - she had reached up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

And then Sherlock felt his arm shoot out to anchor her in place, found his lips chasing hers, and for a few stolen, blissful moments, he was kissing Molly and she was kissing him back – until, that was, he felt something tugging at his trouser leg. The birthday girl was sitting on her backside, looking up at them and smiling toothily; she apparently possessed a stealth that her mother would have been proud of, and the timing of her father. Thankfully, there was a short delay between the kiss abruptly ending and John arriving in search of his escaped progeny, long enough for Molly (still blushing) to scoop up Rosie and for Sherlock to mumble some sort of idiotic apology.

Thank God he had the case to take his mind of his romantic ineptitude. Except that, four days later, with the case all but wrapped up, Sherlock found himself outside the Gothenburg Medical History Museum - and somehow it proved the last straw. Before he could talk himself out of it, he had texted Molly.

**Can you come to Gothenburg? – SH**

Considering he had never before asked her to come with him anywhere outside of the M25, he knew it was a lot to ask. His pulse was still thudding in his ears when her response came through a few moments later.

**_Do you need help? – Mx_ **

Hastily, concerned he had caused Molly to worry, he replied.

**No**

Then, feeling as though he was taking his future in his hands, he had added a second message.

**Just you**

There followed what felt like the longest wait of his life, although it must have been only a matter of minutes. During that time, Sherlock had started to research airline schedules, but he hadn’t got very far when his phone buzzed with another alert – not a text, but a forwarded email, with flight details and an arrival time. Molly was going to be arriving that night.

Sherlock had had every intention of paying for her flight, but he should have known that Molly wouldn’t allow it – after everything that had happened, including the interrupted kiss, she wanted to come to him on her own terms. But the speed and nature of her response couldn’t help but give him hope.

He had passed the rest of that day in a state of heightened emotion, veering wildly between chronic anxiety and heady exhilaration – and concluding that he had chosen a truly shit time to quit smoking. Molly had insisted that he didn’t need to come to the airport, and instead they had arranged to meet at the main railway station in Gothenburg. When he received a text to say she was on the way, Sherlock had had a very sudden and very undignified panic about whether he should be bringing flowers. Molly liked flowers, he knew that, but then he was worried it might look presumptuous on his part – and if he was misreading the situation, there would just be a big bunch of flowers there, and it would be incredibly awkward. He couldn’t help but think that some aspects of his life were a lot simpler before he acknowledged that he was in love with Molly Hooper.

In the end, he had gone to the station empty-handed – and before he had time to panic about it further, she was there. And then Sherlock wished he hadn’t wasted so much bloody time deliberating about flowers when he should have been figuring out what was going to come out of his mouth when they were face to face. As a result, what came out was, “There is a museum that I thought might be of interest, but I think it might be closed now.” Yep, he was definitely a lot more articulate and eloquent before he fell in love. Molly could clearly tell that he was floundering, and replied that she would like to do that tomorrow, but perhaps he could show her the city instead; she was allowing him to step back in his comfort zone.

After sending Molly’s bags on to his hotel, they set off around the streets that Sherlock had memorized during the course of his investigation, Sherlock pointing out various sites pertinent to the case, and Molly drawing his attention to the sorts of things that his brain usually overlooked as not important. When they found themselves on the outskirts of the Götaplatsen, Molly had asked him to wait while she disappeared into a couple of shops that were open late; when she returned, she was carrying a plastic Viking helmet (for Rosie, she insisted) and a paper bag from which emanated the most enticing smell, reminding Sherlock that he hadn’t eaten anything since the confusing selection of meat and cheese that was offered at breakfast.

The bag, it turned out, contained  _kanelbulle_ , some sort of cinnamon bun, and Sherlock’s growling stomach, coupled with the loveliness of the woman who proffered it, had rendered him powerless to refuse. And then, in that darkened corner of the beautiful city square, with the taste of sugar and cardamom still on his lips, Sherlock had kissed Molly again – and this time, there were no interruptions from rogue Watsons. Before he’d even caught his breath again, as his forehead was pressed against Molly’s, the words that he had been holding back tumbled out – and somehow, “Would you like to go to the Gothenburg Medical History Museum?” had become “Will you marry me?”. He felt Molly’s face spread into smile before he heard her whispered yes.

They had walked back to the hotel hand in hand, the first time, Sherlock realised, that he had held hands with another person since he was a small child. He would have assumed he would feel ridiculous, but instead it had felt utterly right – this was his fiancée, after all, and he had no intention of ever letting go. Molly had obviously been thinking along similar lines, because when they arrived at the hotel, she had suggested that maybe they should cancel her room reservation after all.

If the next few hours were anything to go by, he would have to remember to defer to Molly more often.

The following morning, Sherlock had woken with his nose buried in Molly’s hair, his arm around her waist, and his mind racing. While he waited for her to wake up, he had closed his eyes again and carefully committed every moment of the previous night to his Mind Palace, an exercise that required the creation of an entirely new and sizeable annexe. By the time Molly turned around in his arms to kiss him good morning, Sherlock’s mind was made up – and he had asked whether, if he could arrange it, she would marry him right away. If Molly was taken by surprise, it barely showed, because her agreement was immediate – and suddenly, they were both laughing, and then Molly was kissing him again, and then any notion of going downstairs to breakfast was jettisoned in favour of far more urgent matters.

It was, Sherlock reflected, as the taxi navigated the winding country roads, always useful to have minor Swedish government officials in your debt. By mid-afternoon that day, they had bought rings, Molly had chosen a new dress, and they were married at the city hall in Gothenburg – and by late afternoon, Molly was applying herself very thoroughly to the task of making a married man out of him. In fact, Sherlock recollected, stifling a reflexive yawn, for the following three days they had barely left the hotel room except when they got bored of room service. If it was up to him, they’d still be there – after all, three days seemed cruelly short for a sex holiday – but Molly’s conscience had got the better of her (and apparently, the NHS didn’t view spontaneous elopement as a valid reason to take emergency leave).

 Sherlock caught sight of them both in the rear-view mirror, Molly worrying at the button on her coat-sleeve in the absence of her phone. He was still getting used to the idea that she was really, finally, his – and was surprised that the reverse wasn’t true, that he somehow felt as though he’d always been Molly’s, and it was just a case of her claiming him.

“Oh God, I’ve just remembered about the papers!” Molly said suddenly, sitting forward in her seat.

“Paper,” Sherlock reminded her. “It was one paper.”

Molly was referring, Sherlock knew, to the very unwelcome feature splashed across the front of a Gothenburg daily newspaper the previous day – a photograph of their signatures in the marriage register, side by side with a picture of him in  _that_  hat. Some little oik at the city hall was about to lose his job.

“If it’s any consolation,” Sherlock added, slipping his hand into hers again. “I’m fairly sure my parents don’t subscribe to  _Göteborgs-Posten._ ”

Molly lightly shoved him in the ribs.

“No, but I bet it’s all over social media by now.”

Sherlock made a ‘pfff’ sound.

“They don’t do that either,” he told her. “Although, come to think of it, the gossip in their village is probably faster and more ruthless than Twitter.”

He was  _reasonably_  confident that print news from Sweden’s second city wouldn’t have reached his parents’ provincial English village in less than twenty-four hours, but that possibility, coming off the back of Mycroft’s prying phone call and combined with Molly’s troubled conscience, had been what finally forced them onto a return flight. The jig, he realised, would soon be up – and when it was, he would quite like to stay on the right side of his new wife.  

“I’ve met your mum and dad exactly once before, Sherlock,” Molly continued. “And the last time was really,  _really_  embarrassing.”

Sherlock looked at her queryingly.

“It  _was_ ,” Molly insisted. “I don’t know what they thought I was doing there – possibly having sex with you to distract to distract you from drugs.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto his face.

“Armed with the wisdom of the past few days,” he said, arching an eyebrow at her. “I’m fairly sure that would have worked.”

“Shut up,” Molly replied, biting down on a smile.

“…Although you’d have had to have been considerably more gentle.”

At this, Molly prodded him in the ribs.

“You’re not helping,” she informed him. “What if…what if they’re angry?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Angry? Molly, do you recall how desperate my parents were for me to bring you for a visit?” he smiled. “This is going to surpass even Christmas. Although, of course, they will expect you at Christmas, too – and every Christmas thereafter, and as many other appalling social occasions that they can engineer.”

Molly gave a chuff of laughter.

“I wish I’d had more time to get them something,” she said. “I hope these things are okay.”

Sherlock had followed Molly around the shops at Gothenburg airport early that morning, as she had scoured the outlets for suitable (although in his mind, unnecessary) gifts for his mother and father.

“They’re fine,” Sherlock told her. “More than fine. And anyway, once they’ve had a shot of the akvavit, they probably won’t remember that we got married and didn’t invite them to the wedding. In fact, they might not even remember who we are.”

As well as the bottle of potent herbal spirit, there were gifts of lingonberry jam and another bag of  _kanelbulle,_ whichMolly had carefully transported from the bakery near their hotel. In a separate gift bag was a teddy bear wearing a jumper of the Swedish flag – a replacement present for Rosie; the Viking helmet was instead in Molly’s suitcase, no longer a suitable gift for their goddaughter since Molly decided at the hotel that she liked Sherlock in it just a little too much…

“Besides,” Sherlock added. “You will be more than enough of a gift for my parents. And…if they’re willing to wait a year or so, they might be rewarded with the gift of a  _new_  family member.”

He felt his heart start to beat just a little bit faster as he spoke the words. Molly looked up at him, blushing, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ears.

“Just to clarify,” he said. “I wasn’t talking about the cat.”

The cat  _was_  something that still needed to be fully discussed between them, along with arrangements for cohabitation, shared finances, and all of the other things that most couples had months, if not years, to prepare for – but the subject of children was already at the forefront of Sherlock’s mind, and he’d been the first one to raise it. He knew he had to curb his impatience, to allow them time to get used to life as a pair before they introduced a third person to the equation, but the desire to get on with making babies had hit him surprisingly hard. It would, he rationalised, be selfish to deprive the world of more human beings with Molly’s intelligence, beauty and heart. For his part, he could offer good bone structure and some exceptional cautionary life-lessons.

“Did that sign say two miles?” Molly asked, twisting around to look out of the back window. The anxious tone had returned again.

“Hm?” Sherlock replied.

She turned around just in time to catch him dipping into the bag of cinnamon buns, but before she’d got a word out, Sherlock had taken a sizeable bite.

“Sherlock!”

“What?” he asked, around a mouthful of Scandinavian baked goodness.

“Your mum and dad?”

He swallowed.

“My mother and father will talk so much when we walk through that door that we won’t see a scrap of food for hours,” he reasoned. “You’d be sensible to eat the other half.”

He tore the pastry in two, and offered it. Molly looked at it, and then him, before relenting and joining him on the dark side. No sooner had she taken a bite than Sherlock leant in, cradling her jaw in his hand and indulging in a sweet, sticky kiss, which automatically triggered a memory of the evening in Götaplatsen. On that occasion, they had been overlooked by the imposing statue of Poseidon – right now, Sherlock became aware that a slightly more reticent South London cabbie was doing more or less the same.

They had come to a slow stop at the turning to a lane.

“This the place, guv?” the driver asked.

Sherlock righted himself again, lacing his fingers with Molly’s, and looking on as she brushed the pearl sugar from her lips and her blouse (marriage actually had a lot to recommend it).

“Yes, you can let us out here,” Sherlock replied, peering out of the window and up the lane.

Ordinarily, by this point, the dull weight of dread would have descended upon him, but now, incredibly, the opposite was true. He was extraordinarily proud, and stupidly happy, and, for reasons Sherlock didn’t yet fully understand, he was actually anxious for his parents to witness it – and yes, possibly even to share in it. For the first time ever, he was looking forward to going home.

It was possible for a car to drive almost up to his parents’ front door, but Sherlock wanted to do the final stage of the journey on foot; to walk side by side with Molly, to perhaps see his parents’ home in a new light. He turned back to Molly, her face full of nervous anticipation. Suddenly, the full scale of that leap of faith that she had taken with him – for him – hit Sherlock again.

“I love you.”

Molly’s whole face was lit up by her smile.

“I love you, too. Always.”

Sherlock took her left hand in his, lifting it to his lips to place a kiss just above her wedding ring. Then he straightened, and said to her, with a gravity suitable to the occasion, “Molly Holmes, I’m afraid the time has come for you to greet your in-laws.”

 


	3. Postscript

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's parents finally get the return visit that they'd hoped for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! 
> 
> I'd fully intended for the previous chapter to be the last one, but there seemed to be a consensus that I'd stopped too early - and I kind of agreed. So I bashed this out over the weekend, and hope that it fits the bill. 
> 
> Completely unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are my own :-)

 “So, you say you were on your way back to London?”

Sherlock’s mother gave Molly another bright smile before turning her attention to her younger son, the target of the question. Sherlock had taken up position by the window in his parents’ living room, leaving them in a strange diamond formation; his father by the fireplace, mother sitting on the sofa and Molly ( _his_  Molly) sitting – as she had been invited – in the big wingback armchair. Or, more accurately, perching slightly nervously.

The news had not yet been broken…but Sherlock didn’t like the look on his mother’s face.

“Yes, that’s right,” he replied, a thick feeling in his mouth. “And, well, it seemed…opportune.”

She was still looking at him strangely, doing that… _thing_  with her eyebrows.

“Well, you know, you both bang on about me not visiting enough,” he added hastily. “And I was aware that you were…keen to see Molly again, and so…”

He finished this frankly-not-very-convincing justification with a dismissive wave that he hoped would end his mother’s line of questioning. As a tactic, it didn’t have a great success rate, but you never know. Much as he wanted to, he didn’t dare glance at Molly for fear that the game would be up (how had he managed to keep his fake suicide secret for  _two years_? The difference, of course, was that he hadn’t been trying to hide  _that_  from his mother).

“It’s just that – as you’ve delighted in reminding us so many times, Sherlock – we’re rather tucked away here and not particularly on the way to anywhere,” his mother said, smiling mildly. “We’re just interested in how this has all come about. Not that you’re not welcome, of course.”

This final clause was chiefly aimed at Molly, who returned the smile, smoothing her hands over her skirt.  _Stop looking at Molly’s hands_  - Sherlock reprimanded himself –  _and legs and, well, her everything. Plenty of time for that later._

Had they really only been there for eight minutes? Sherlock was surprised he hadn’t just blurted it out by now – and he wasn’t sure  _why_  he hadn’t. What was he waiting for? It was that old satisfaction of I-know-something-you-don’t-know, he supposed (which was better when it was Mycroft, but ordinarily almost as enjoyable with his parents), but it was a reflex that this time wasn’t serving his interests.

“And,” his mother continued, with a swift glance towards Sherlock’s father before her gaze wandered more generally around the room. “We  _were_  starting to wonder how long it would be before we got to see our new daughter-in-law.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. His eyes flew to his mother; her mouth was pulled into a thin line, but her eyes were doing the smiling. When he looked to Molly, she met his gaze with a combination of shock, bewilderment and amusement.

“Y-you  _know_?” Sherlock managed.

His mother looked at him fondly and let out a chuckle.

“Oh, darling,  _everyone_  knows!”

Sherlock felt his mouth fall, words actually failing him.

“W-what?” he eventually managed.

“Sorry, old boy,” his father added with a laugh of his own. “We couldn’t resist having a little fun with you.”

“But  _how_  do you know?” Sherlock demanded. Such was his discombobulation that for a second he wondered whether Rosie had somehow managed to convey to John what she had caught he and Molly doing in the hallway – but then he realised he was overlooking the obvious. “Mycroft,” he growled, nodding at the predictability of it all.

“It wasn’t your brother,” his mother replied, brightly. “Although he sends his regards. He couldn’t be here, unfortunately – some cockup with a project involving civilian agents, apparently.”

“We actually heard it from the Mathers in the village,” his father explained. “Their daughter has a Swedish  _au pair_ ; reads the national newspapers online. It’s a funny old world, sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Not the word I would reach for,” Sherlock muttered, offering a watery smile. But then he caught Molly’s eye; she had her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh – apparently, in the future, it was going to be three against one.

“Anyway, darling,” his mother continued, her tone now softer as the moved across the room to stand roughly halfway between him and Molly. “It wouldn’t have been difficult to work out; all we would needed to have done would be to look at your face – Sherlock, you look as though you might spontaneously combust if you aren’t able to touch Molly again soon.”

At this, Sherlock felt his face flash with heat – his mother had read him like a cheap paperback.

“And the wedding rings were a bit of a giveaway, too,” his mother added in a stage whisper, taking his arm and slowly tugging Sherlock closer to her. At the same time, she held out her other hand to Molly, wordlessly beckoning her over.

“Those deduction skills didn’t come from nowhere,” Sherlock’s father told him, with a smile in his wife’s direction.

Before he could remind his father about the many years of methodically honing his intellect and observation skills, and about his intensive study of human behaviour, Sherlock found himself being engulfed in a hug by his mother. The same thing had happened to Molly, his mother’s arms now flung around them both and squeezing them tightly, leading to the slightly odd situation of Sherlock and Molly facing each other behind his mother’s back. Sherlock offered her an apologetic grimace, and Molly responded by biting her lip in amusement.

“You’d better not be pulling a face back there, young man,” his mother said, warningly. Before Sherlock could protest his innocence (or at least protest his lack of oxygen), he felt his mother gently pull his head down to her level and heard her whisper in his ear: “Well done, darling boy.”

He couldn’t help it; even though he did his best to maintain his impassive expression, he felt a warm swell of pride in his core. Once Sherlock’s mother had stepped back - and both he and Molly had also been embraced by his father – he was finally able to wrap his arm around Molly’s shoulders, and then marvel once again at how easily, naturally, her own arm slipped around his waist. The fingers of her other hand, the left one, met his on her shoulder; the sight of the wedding ring there still had the power to make Sherlock’s heart jolt.

“You’re not, um, you’re not upset?” Molly asked, suddenly. “I mean, about the way we… _it_  happened? It’s not that we didn’t want you there-”

\- Sherlock coughed, then immediately felt the forefinger of Molly’s right hand poke him in the ribs –

“…it was all just a bit unexpected, and we-”

“Didn’t want to waste any more time?” Sherlock’s father put in. “We understand. And we’ll survive, won’t we, my love?”

When Sherlock returned his gaze to his mother, he was slightly alarmed to see that she was crying. She had long ago hardened herself against crying at his self-destructive tendencies, or even his brushes with death – but Sherlock realised that she just wasn’t prepared for a turn of events like this one.

“Let’s have a drink before your mother needs the smelling salts,” his father continued, leading his mother to the sofa as she dabbed at her eyes with a doily she’d taken from the windowsill.

Sherlock immediately assumed his father was talking about tea (which his parents drank so regularly it would have been as well for them to take it intravenously), but within moments, his father had returned with a bottle of Champagne.

“Popped across to Waitrose in Horsham yesterday,” he explained with a crinkly smile. “Just in case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then felt Molly squeeze his hand in what felt like a gesture of support.

His mother managed to recover herself enough to accept a glass of Champagne, followed by a sample of the akvavit, which Molly had suddenly remembered, along with the rest of the presents. The alcohol did nothing to stem the tide of hugs, touches, squeezes and general ‘warmth’ that flowed from his mother to the both of them – it was hard to be stoic in the face of so much parental affection.

After a short while, his mother patted him on the knee and asked – or rather told – him to come to the kitchen to give her a hand. She looked delighted as he and Molly exchanged a quick kiss before he fell into line behind her. On entering the kitchen, Sherlock was still dwelling on the myriad undesirable outcomes that could arise from leaving his father alone with Molly; it took him a moment to notice the huge array of food, in various stages of preparedness, lined up on every available surface. It didn’t seem very likely that his parents had decided to become survivalists…

“Are you…having a party?” he ventured instead.

“Yes!” his mother replied, setting the lingonberry jam down on the table. “We’ve invited John and Rosie, of course, and Mrs Hudson, too. Oh, and I think John was going to ask that nice detective as well – the one with the French name.”

Once again, Sherlock felt his mouth drop open. In the background, he’d been starting to think about those first conversations with their friends – and now, clearly, he would have to think quicker. And depending on their reactions to the spontaneous and secret nature of the wedding, it could end up being more of an angry mob than a party. But something else had to be established first.

“How could you possibly know that we would be coming here?” Sherlock asked.

“Ah! Now that  _was_  Mycroft,” his mother replied, pausing by the table. “I believe he gets some sort of alert whenever your name appears on a passenger manifest. After that, I don’t think it was terribly difficult; he seems to have people all over the place. Now, could you be a darling, Sherlock, and get that bowl from the top of cupboard? It gives your father vertigo these days if he looks up for too long.”

Dutifully – and still stewing about his brother’s incessant interference – Sherlock dragged a dining chair over to the high, built-in cupboard.

“Shoes off, darling,” his mother said, jabbing a wooden spoon in the direction of his footwear.

He wanted to point out that he had spent most of the past week cloistered in a hotel room, his shoes cast somewhere into the corner, along with the rest of his clothes, but he imagined he might end up more embarrassed by this avenue of conversation than his mother. In the end, he toed out of his shoes and did as he was told.

“I…I noticed that Molly isn’t wearing an engagement ring,” his mother said, as the bowl exchanged hands between them.

Sherlock assumed he was about to be chastised for this oversight, but there was a slight hesitation in his mother’s tone, her gaze fluttering between him and the bowl.

“I hadn’t entirely planned on proposing,” he replied, the memory of it enough to cause a replay of those feelings of anxiety and ecstasy. “Not there, or then, anyway. It just sort of…happened. And as it was, we were actually only engaged for about eighteen hours.”

His mother smiled, reaching up to gently pat his cheek.

“Well, it’s perhaps just as well,” she said. “Because I would like you to have your grandmother’s engagement ring, if you’d like it – and if you think Molly would?”

From nowhere – or possibly from the bread-bin, he wasn’t sure – his mother produced a small, velvet-covered box. She took his right hand, lifted it, and placed the box in his palm.

“I…I had hoped that might be an option,” Sherlock confessed. “I just hope that Molly will overlook the slightly backwards nature of it.”

At this, his mother gave a short chuckle.

“She married you, Sherlock, so I’m sure she’s used to that sort of thing,” she said. This was true, of course, although it made him realise that it wasn’t something he wanted Molly to settle for any longer; he could – and would – do better.

Instead of moving away, his mother linked her arm through his, her fingers curling lightly around his forearm.

“I am…I’m so very pleased that you two were able to…resolve things between you, after…” his mother said, trailing off. “On top of everything, all of the unspeakable things that happened, your father and I were devastated that Molly was dragged into it. I…I hope she can forgive us all.”

His mother’s sudden vulnerability came as a shock to Sherlock at first; his parents had grieved for Eurus’ other victims, but he had never considered that they might in some way feel culpable for the pain that Molly had been put through. He gently withdrew his arm from his mother’s grasp, and instead found himself putting it around her shoulder; she almost flinched, so unexpected was the gesture, but then she leant into his side.

“Molly would say there’s nothing to forgive,” Sherlock replied. “But then, she’s a good deal better than I am.”

His mother smiled up at him.

 “Spoken like a true newlywed,” she said, patting his hand affectionately.

With consummate timing, Molly then came wandering through to the kitchen; Sherlock felt his stomach dip just at the sight of her, which seemed ridiculous – but it was infinitely better than the gnawing ache that he used to feel. Molly beamed at him, and made a beeline for where he was standing; fully aware that his mother was watching, but not caring in the least, Sherlock held out his arm to allow Molly to slide into his side.

“Hello,” he murmured, deftly secreting the engagement ring in his inside jacket pocket.

“Hi,” Molly replied, softly. She arched up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

“I hope my husband has been looking after you, Molly?” his mother asked, setting a chopping board down on the counter. “Please don’t tell me he’s dozed off in there?”

Molly smiled.

“We’ve just been chatting,” she replied. “And…wow, that’s…a lot of food.”

She was surveying the kitchen with the same look of confusion that he had been wearing several minutes earlier.

“Ah, yes, allow me to explain,” Sherlock replied, giving his mother one final, weary glance.

Molly took the news of their impending wedding-celebration party very well, considering; so much so that by the end of the conversation she was offering both her own and Sherlock’s help in the food preparation. Sherlock had to admit that a party had the advantage of getting it all over with in one go, and it would mean that once they  _did_  eventually get back to London, he and Molly would be perfectly justified in telling everyone to leave them alone for a little while…or several years, whatever they could get away with. That said, Sherlock had to acknowledge that he was particularly keen to see Rosie, hoping she would somehow understand that he had  _finally_  done the right thing by Aunty Molly.

“Nobody will be arriving until early afternoon,” Sherlock’s mother said. “So I wondered whether you two might consider staying overnight, just for the one night? It would be so lovely to have you here for a bit longer.”

She obviously saw that Sherlock was formulating an objection, quickly adding with a smile, “We promise we’ll allow you your privacy.”

By this time, his father had sauntered into the kitchen

“There was a time, Molly, when Sherlock was a teenager, when we had to take his bedroom door off its hinges to prevent him from keeping any more little secrets from us,” his father said, with a chuckle. From what Sherlock could recall, there wasn’t much laughter at the time. “But don’t worry, we’ve put it back now.”

Molly smiled.

“We’d love to stay tonight. Thank you.”

She followed it up with a little sideways glance to Sherlock that was intended to quash any notions he had of hightailing it into the night once the party was over. Not that it was very easy to hightail it anywhere from the wilds of West Sussex – and he should know.

“Right!” his father said, rubbing his hands together. “How about that drink now?”

Glasses of Champagne were soon being passed around, and they all migrated back into the living room, where Sherlock settled into the sofa with Molly beside him.

“This house is so lovely,” Molly said, taking a sip of her drink.

His mother thanked her.

“We thought we’d never find somewhere that felt like a proper home…after Musgrave, I mean,” she replied. “But this one has served us very well. Of course, there’s plenty of space, should that ever be an issue…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted slightly in his seat.

“Sorry about my wife, Molly,” his father said in a theatrical whisper. “She’s been struggling not to say the B-word all morning.”

“She’s not the only one,” Sherlock muttered, hearing a quiet snigger from his wife, as she simultaneously jabbed him lightly in the ribs.

“What was that, darling?” his mother queried.

“I was about to say that considering Molly and I have been in a romantic relationship for less than a week, it probably is, in fact, too early to be talking about when we’ll be furnishing you with grandchildren, yes.”

"Don't worry, darling, we're good at waiting," his mother said, undeterred. "And in the meantime, we've got plenty of lovely photos to show Molly from when you were a little boy. I'll get some of the albums down when I'm finished doing the food."

Molly offered again to lend a hand, but his mother waved her away.

"Sherlock, why don't you show Molly around properly?" she said instead.

Molly swallowed the last mouthful of her drink and set the glass down on the side table.

"If you're sure?" she said. "I _was_ hoping that Sherlock might show me his old room."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"It's really nothing special, Molly, it's just a room with an old desk and a bed," he said.

"Yes," Molly said, slowly. "But still…"

He saw an odd look pass over his mother's face.

"Oh, do you know what it is? We don't have nearly enough bread to have with the meal," his mother said, clapping her hands to her knees. "Your father and I will just have to go up to town: they never stock the really nice varieties in the village."

He watched as his mother got to her feet, beckoning his father to follow - his father, he noted, looked roughly as confused as Sherlock felt, as his coat was handed to him.

"We'll probably be an hour or so," his mother added, as she wrapped her scarf around her neck.

Within a few seconds, Sherlock heard the front door being closed. He frowned, turning to Molly.

"Molly, I can only apologise for the bizarre conduct of my parents," he said. "I particularly don't know what's got into my mother; I counted four loaves of bread on that kitchen counter."

Molly gave him a long, querying look, and then rolled her eyes.

“Sherlock,” she said, firmly, tugging him to his feet. “I definitely think you should show me your bedroom.”

_Ohhhh._

_Oh. Right. Yes._

As Molly took him by the hand and pulled him in the direction of the stairs, Sherlock briefly touched his fingers to the small, velvet-covered box in his jacket pocket. He might get his moment rather sooner than expected.

 


End file.
